


No One's Looking at Your Scars

by BeneficialAddiction



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Avengers are in High Demand, Fix-It, Interviews, Jealous Phil Coulson, Photo Shoots, Scars, accidental porn, cmoreedits, photo manip, tumblr inspiration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 20:32:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13911660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: When Phil comes back from the dead Clint will do everything he can to make his life easier, even if it means doing a dreaded interview.The results are... not what he expected.





	No One's Looking at Your Scars

**Author's Note:**

> cmoreedits created the gorgeous photo-manip that inspired this fic - go check it out!
> 
> https://cmoreedits.tumblr.com/tagged/jeremy-renner

Coulson's been back from the dead for six months now. 

Well, longer, but Clint's only _known_ he was back from the dead for six months. 

Really it's been closer to two years, and yeah, that's all kinds of messed up and some days he's still dealing with it, but the important thing is that Phil's alive and as soon as he'd regained his memories he'd come flying back to Strike Team Delta like the vengeful badass so few people realize he is. 

Clint tries not to be too smug about that. 

About the fact that he'd denounced his oldest friend, one Nicholas R Fury, a lying liar who lies, given up his shiny new job as the Director of underground SHIELD, and come back to him. 

Er... to Strike Team Delta. 

Him and Nat. 

Yeah. 

It's just that Clint's been having a hard time ever since Coulson came back. He was in love with the guy before; like, head-over-heels, till-the-day-I-die kinda love, which in retrospect isn't a great analogy. He'd managed to keep a lid on that mess so he wouldn't ruin their awesome partnership, but also mostly because Coulson was obviously way out of his league. Now though, now, after Clint had lived almost two years knowing he'd done this thing, very nearly _directly caused_ the death of the man he loved with his whole heart without ever having told him how much he meant to him... 

It makes it hard. 

Hard to do what you ask? 

Hard to do _anything._

See, Coulson may still be reporting to newly minted Director of SHIELD Maria Hill, still leading his shiny new team of SHIELD ducklings remotely via frequent conference with Melinda May, but he's _living_ in Stark Tower with the Avengers. He's coordinating _their_ responses to world threats, arguing with world leaders on _their_ behalf, babysitting Stark and Wilson and Barnes _constantly._

In other words, he's anywhere and everywhere Clint turns.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to watch the object of your unsurpassed affections be a complete and total BAMF one minute and then turn around and do the whole sweet domesticity thing the next?!

Let's just say Clint's heart isn't the only thing that aches at the end of the day.

Nat makes fun of him. 

She's always been an unrepentant bully, but ever since Coulson came back she's taken it to the next level.

To be fair Clint's kind of done the same with the pining, but still.

Not cool.

He's just trying to make the guy's life a little easier ok? Sure, he's finished his PT, been cleared to go back into the field, but damn it, he's still got one hell of a scar across his chest and alien juice powering his heart, not to mention the prosthetic hand. Clint knows he probably doesn't need it, knows that as a Level Seven Agent of SHIELD, Boss-Level Badass he probably _hates_ the coddling, but he can't help it.

He brings Coulson coffee instead of making him traverse six floors of Stark Tower to get at the pot. 

He finishes his paperwork on time, signed, dated, and appropriately detailed and annotated.

He even helps corral Stark and his crazy whenever he can.

There's just one thing Clint hasn't done that could take some of the stress off of Phil's shoulders, and he's very, very close to caving on it, even if it means walking through his own personal hell.

 _"Please,"_ Coulson begs, his voice low and flat and hopeless. "Just give them _something._ You're the only one of the Avengers who hasn't done a focused release; do you have any idea how many requests I field for interviews with the silent member of Earth's Mightiest Heroes?"

Clint scoffs under his breath, wriggles on the couch in Phil's office uncomfortably.

"I'm not a hero," he mutters, then, when Phil flashes him a dirty look, "And you wish I was silent."

"Not right now I don't," Coulson grumbles, picking up a stack of unusually wrinkled and disheveled papers to wave in his direction. "Rolling Stones. Entertainment Tonight. Brooks Brothers. For Thor's sake, work with me Barton! Even Romanoff did that shoot for Vera Wang."

"Course she did; Nat's got the hots for the designer," Clint snorts, rolling his eyes. "Besides, I don't think I'd pull off the evening gown quite the same."

"Smart ass," Coulson chides, but there's amusement lurking around the corners of his eyes, the place where they crinkle when he smiles. "Do the Brooks Brothers then. You get to keep the suits after."

"Sure you don't wanna take that one boss?" he asks. "Sounds like a better fit for you than me."

"Nice try," Coulson smirks, "But you're not going to distract me. One interview Clint, that's all I ask. These people are starting to give me grey hair."

"I..."

Coulson doesn't call him Clint.

It's always been Barton, or Agent, or Hawkeye, Specialist every once in a while when he's been extra good on a mission.

Never Clint.

"Ok."

It comes out nervous and a little bit shocked, like his body doesn't recognize his own voice. Phil seems just as surprised, his eyebrows ticking upward in an uncharacteristic tell. Clint freezes, goes sniper-still as all his muscles tense up at once, but then Phil's sighing and sinking back into his desk chair and his whole stupid brain lights up with the feel-goods, like a puppy that's been petted, just because he's made Coulson happy.

"Thank you," he breathes, like his strings have been cut, like his biggest worry has just been taken off his plate - and yeah, _that_ kinda puts a damper on Clint's jollies. "I'll get you a decent one, I promise. Nothing too painful."

"Stalingrad or Sao Paulo?" he asks, falling back on a scale of old missions because he wants nothing more right now than to kiss the man in front of him senseless.

"Oh, Belarus, at least," Coulson replies off-handedly, already digging through the pile of requests cluttering up his desk.

As Clint watches him dig deeper, surprise begins to outpace the feeling of dread quickly taking up residence in his chest. He understands the media requests to speak with Cap and Stark, the photographers who want a session with Natasha. Heck, he even gets the calls to meet with Bruce, despite the stones it must take on behalf of the interviewer.

But him?

All those papers, all those people, they want to talk to _him?_

"People," Phil declares quietly, coming out of the pile that suddenly appears enormous, forms clutched triumphantly in his hand. "I know the reporter; you'll get along. She's fair and she'll let you tell the story you want to tell." 

Coulson hands them over and Clint knows he expects him to read them, to scour the pages so that he knows exactly what he's getting himself into, but he doesn't bother. Grabbing a pen, he signs on the dotted line and hands the paperwork back.

"I trust you Sir," he says with a casual shrug, and then, because Coulson is staring at him, because it came out way too heavy and sincere, he beats a hasty retreat from the office.

**AVAVA**

Less than two weeks later Clint is standing in a small but brightly lit studio speaking with Olivia Lancaster, a woman who isn't at all what he expected, but who, true to Phil's word, he _is_ getting along with quite well. She's older than he expected, clean and put together, professional but not stuffy. She'd greeted him with coffee and almost immediately put him at ease by not being super nosey or staring, like most reporters and paparazzi do, and while she had asked _him_ some direct questions about life with the Avengers and his role on the team, she's mostly letting him run the talk.

"I _would_ like to do something along those lines," she says, putting her empty mug aside and re-crossing her legs on the white sofa she'd dropped into. "It's an inspiring story, being the only unenhanced individual on a team of superheroes." 

"Unenhanced," Clint laughs, sitting back more easily in his seat. "I like that. That's the _nicest_ way anyone's ever put it. But I'd have to argue with you there." 

She makes an enquiring sound, leans forward in a way that's familiar because Clint's hands twitch for a bow sometimes the way hers are undoubtedly twitching for a pen. 

"Stark's not enhanced," he explains. "He's just a regular guy." 

"Just your _average_ billionaire, playboy, philanthropist," Olivia says with a smile, not mocking but amused. 

"Nah, you're forgetting genius," Clint corrects. "He's Iron Man, sure, but he's only got the armor because he's got the brain to build it." 

"One might argue that you've got the aim because you've got the eyes," she says, nodding along like she's coming around to his point. "You're human, but you made yourself Hawkeye just like Tony Stark made himself Iron Man." 

"Exactly." 

"Hmm." 

The journalist is quiet a minute and for the first time Clint feels a little nervous, because he can practically see the gears turning in her head. 

Crap, he wishes Phil were here. 

It would have been easier, having his handler there to direct things, to _handle_ him, but the whole point had been to make things a little easier on Coulson, and forcing him to come glare Clint into submission in an interview would hardly be helpful. Now though he gets the sinking feeling that he may have just stepped right into something he'd meant to skirt around. 

"I like it," Olivia decides, nodding her head. "It still fits. Goes well with the theme. Special, with unique abilities, but still human." 

"I guess. I definitely get hurt more than the rest of them." 

"Tell me about that." 

"What, medical?" Clint asks, surprised. 

"I've interviewed all the rest of the Avengers at least once," she explains. "I don't know if you've read the articles." 

Clint shrugs, non-committaly. 

"It's very surreal," she explains, and ok, he gets that. 

Heck, he _lives_ it. 

"It's all super-serums and radiation, _enhancement,"_ she continues. "It's difficult for the average individual to relate. But you're human. You're sitting here in front of me and there's not all that much difference between us." 

Clint must pull a disbelieving face, because she laughs. 

"Oh, in experience, of course, in skill sets," she allows. "But deep down, at our core, our very physical make-up. Our _bodies_ are the same. You and I break and bleed and heal much more similarly than say, Captain America would." 

"You've got that right," Clint agrees with a rough laugh. "And I've got the scars to prove it." 

He sees the moment the lightbulb goes off, when casual and laid-back snaps to attention and becomes a hound on the scent of a story. Rubbing the hem of his shirt between his fingers, Clint thinks about Coulson and his blood-pressure, about getting this thing done for him, and makes a decision. 

"You wanna see?"

**AVAVA**

Clint knows the moment the article drops nine days later, even though he's been holed up in the Tower ever since his interview and impromptu photo shoot. It's Stark that tips him off, setting his spy-senses tingling before he's even had his first cup of coffee, and really, he shouldn't be surprised.

"What?" he asks warily, mug held possessively against his chest, prepared to fend off any caffeine-thievery that might ensue. 

Tony just cocks his head, keeps right on looking at him with this expression that's all kinds of confused and intrigued and surprised and maybe just a little bit sad. Clint scowls, sits down at the island across from him because Tony doesn't do anything for no reason anymore, and because it's better to wait him out than get cornered by the dude's creepily devoted AI later. He studies Clint for a few more minutes before sliding a magazine across the countertop towards him, glossy pages fluttering and already smudge with motor oil, and Clint doesn't even have to look to know what it is. 

"You said nice things about me," Tony says, in a voice that sounds way too young for Clint's comfort. "No one ever says nice things about me." 

"Sure they do," Clint shrugs, brushing him off because man, this is weird. "Nat even called you useful. For a Russian that's like, a love confession." 

Tony shudders theatrically – which, fair – then points a finger at him. 

"Not in print though," he accuses, like it's a bad thing. "Not on record. You're going to ruin my reputation as a hopeless degenerate!" 

"Chill," Clint advises, getting up to abandon all this weird at the table. "You're not a degenerate man. Didn't you read the article? You're just _unenhanced."_

Tony splutters and Clint takes the opportunity to make good his escape, responding to the pre-pubescent sex joke hurled at his back with nothing more than a finger flipped over his shoulder.

**AVAVA**

Cap catches him in the gym, and Clint didn't think it was possible, but it's way more uncomfortable than being confronted by Tony in the kitchen. He'd just finished his reps on the bench press and was moving toward the free weights when Steve called out to him, nearly scaring him out of his shorts what with the way he just _appears._

The sneaking lessons with Natasha are paying off. 

"Hey Cap," he pants, scrubbing a towel down over his face, because Steve's wearing his _Concerned Citizen_ face. "What's up? 

"I wanted to apologize," he says, all moral-and-upright determination. "I hadn't realized how badly you'd been hurt on some of our missions." 

Clint blinks, confused, but Cap rushes on like Clint's challenged him on it. 

"It's just that I'm the Captain," he explains, without explaining anything at all. "We're a team. I should have paid closer attention, I should have realized that you..." 

He stumbles to an awkward stop, rubs self-consciously at his forearm before shaking his head. 

"It's just that I forget sometimes," he admits, in a voice that aches with something Clint can't even begin to understand. "I shouldn't. If anyone knows what it's like to be... _breakable..._ it should be me." 

Lifting his head, he squares his shoulders and looks Clint in the eye. 

"But it was seventy years in the ice," he says, seemingly warm and firm and sure if Clint couldn't spot the guilt and insecurity. "And sometimes I forget. So I'm sorry for that." 

"I'm not made of glass Cap," Clint growls, his own insecurities rushing out to play. "I might not be a super soldier, but I can take a hit." 

"That's not what I meant," Steve counters with a shitty smirk, and Clint's taken aback because he too forgets sometimes, forgets that Steve _was_ a soldier once upon a time, and knows what are fighting words. 

"You're the man I always wanted to be Clint," he says, and that, _that_ rings true and certain. "I got a kind of... short cut with the serum. Sure, I took the risk, but this, me? Sometimes I feel like I'm only winning the game because Howard Stark gave me the cheat codes." 

"You've been playing too many video games with Wilson and Barnes," Clint hears himself say. "Howard might have given you the muscles, but you're the one who chose what to do with them." 

"Just like you," Steve agrees. "Only without the advantage." 

Clint frowns, doesn't reply, because how can he argue that? Cap just offers him a wry smile, claps him on the shoulder. 

"Just be careful," he advises, which, thanks Cap, _duh._ "Don't forget we've got your back." 

And then he's gone, jogging out of the gym and leaving Clint standing there wondering what the hell is going on.

**AVAVA**

"You haven't seen it yet, have you."

Clint yelps, nearly bounces his head off the ceiling he jumps so high, but the arrow he leases still hits its mark, dead center of the target at the other end of the range. 

"Damn it woman!" he snarls, spinning on his heel to find her perched on the ammunitions table behind him. "Not you too!" 

Nat narrows her eyes, studies him, then shakes her head. 

"You're completely hopeless Barton," she huffs, folding her arms over her chest and drawing her feet up to sit criss-cross. "Do you have any clue what you've started?" 

"It wasn't my idea!" Clint cries in defense, throwing up his arms. "I was just helping Coulson out! Those people were hounding him, and he needed me to take an interview." 

"Yes, don't think we won't talk about _that_ later," she says ominously. "But the _pictures_ Clint. Really?" 

"What?" Clint whines. "You know how crap I am at all that stuff. She wanted to talk about the _'Human Avenger,'_ \- showing her the scars was all I could think of. Was it really that bad?" 

Natasha snorts indelicately, flinging a copy of that stupid magazine at his head. 

"I hate to break it to you Little Bird," she lies with a smirk, "But no one's looking at your scars." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" he grumbles, turning the mag right-side-up and paging through. "Cap was all patriotically worried that I was..." 

"Cap wouldn't know erotica if it hit him in the face," Natasha interrupts. "Not with the way Stark's flirting goes over his head. He's about as subtle as Thor's hammer." 

"Erotica?" Clint mutters, finding the article and spreading the pages out on the table next to her knee. "What's that got to do... aw, photoshoot, no."

**AVAVA**

Nat has to drag him kicking and scratching up to Coulson's office suite.

No seriously, she actually throws him inside and locks the door behind him. 

He takes a little pleasure in knowing that she'll be carrying his teeth marks on her shoulder for a while, but not enough that he can rid himself of that terrifying combination of dread, guilt, and anxiety he often feels where Coulson's concerned. 

Not his fault – it's Clint's stupid... _thing._

Slowly, Clint turns to face his fate, mentally preparing himself for the look of disappointment Coulson will be wearing, only to be stunned by what he sees. 

Phil - and it's definitely Phil right now, not Agent Coulson - has stripped off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves, and is sitting slouched down low behind his desk. He's wearing his glasses, those god-forsaken thick-framed glasses that drive Clint so crazy, and he's got his elbows resting on the arms of his chair, fingers steepled in front of his face, staring. 

Clint gulps, because it's a dark look, a quiet, assessing look, and it hits him low in the libido, hard. 

"Umm..." he hedges, licking his lips, "Nat said you wanted to see me boss?" 

"You finished the interview," Phil says lowly, and there's something almost accusatory in his tone. "Olivia said you were a complete _joy_ to work with." 

"I did it for you," Clint blurts out, because very suddenly he feels like he's done something bad. 

Coulson lifts a sardonic brow, his face half shadow, and when did the lights get so dim in here. 

"You did _that_ for me?" he asks, sounding... either disbelieving or disproving, Clint isn't sure which. 

"You asked me to..." 

"I asked you to take an interview," he cuts in sharply. "That? That was practically pornography. I've already fielded calls from KinkMasters and MenOnEdge - I'm surprised People was even allowed to run it." 

"I... she just wanted a human piece," Clint stumbles, because yes, ok, this looks bad. 

"So you take off your clothes?" Phil snaps. 

_Shit._

Look, the results of the shoot hadn't turned out anything like he'd thought it would, ok? 

The pictures meant to focus on his scars had done just that, but they had turned out a lot more racy than Clint had anticipated, bordering, like Natasha had said, on erotica. The black-and-white film had captured thin, silver knife marks and the raised puckers of old bullets in high relief, but he'd put a lot of skin on display to give up those shots. The main photo, enlarged to dominate the two-page spread, depicted him from the waist up, bare-chested but for the leather straps of his quiver, and Clint's watched enough porn in his life to see how it could look like a harness. 

"Christ Barton," Phil growls, "I knew you and Olivia would get along but I didn't realize you would get along _that well._ You've certainly never been called a 'joy to work' with before." 

Something in Clint's belly flares hot, high and fast, and he narrows his eyes. 

"Why are you so pissed about this?" he demands, immediately defensive because _nothing_ had happened between him and Olivia ok? 

"Because you're an Avenger," Phil snaps right back, sitting up in his seat and putting his hands flat on the desk. "You shouldn't be stripping off for..." 

"Don’t give me that crap!" Clint snarls. "We're fricking _SHIELD Agents_ \- since when did you become so body-shy?" 

"Neither of us are SHIELD Agents anymore," Phil reminds him. "You're an _Avenger_ now, you..." 

"Haven't done anything worse than that underwear ad Thor did for Calvin Klien," Clint hurls back. "It was just a picture Coulson. So I took my shirt off, so what? I can't even count how many times Bruce has flashed his _dick_ to the cameras coming back down from a Hulk-out – why are you on my case about this?" 

Phil freezes, standing tall with his fists planted on his desk, and when had he stood up? Clint isn't sure, but as he stands there waiting for an answer the man's face turns bright red, then rapidly pales, his mouth opening and closing like he's broken somehow. 

Clint's heart thumps in his chest and he tilts his head, slowly looking Phil up and down, replaying the conversation in his head. 

"Wait, are you..." he asks, feeling about as stunned as Phil looks. "Are you _jealous?"_

"I..." 

Clint doesn't let him get any farther. 

Before he knows it he's crossed the floor and grabbed Phil by the tie, drug him across the desk and is kissing him senseless, just like he's always wanted to. There's a moment of hesitation, one brief second where Phil's all surprise and Clint's all panic, but then they're both falling into it and they can't pull each other close enough. Phil's hand is at the back of Clint's neck, pulling him in tight, their mouths are crushed together so hard it hurts, and nothing, _nothing_ has ever been so perfect as this moment. 

"I did it for you," he says in the tiny breaths between sharp, hungry kisses. "I did that _stupid_ interview for you." 

"Didn't even read it," Phil pants, biting at his lips. "Couldn't get passed those _damned_ pictures..." 

"Wasn’t anything," he promises. "Just a bunch of scars. Told her where you shot me, but I... couldn't show her that one." 

Phil's hand slides down his side, grips his thigh hard where the bullet wound still marks his skin, because apparently one of them has moved around the desk, unhappy with the obstacle between them. 

"I love you so much," he says suddenly, harsh and heavy like it's a relief to finally spit it out. "God Clint, you have no idea how hard it was not to look, not to touch all those times when you... And then you went and stripped off for her and showed the whole world and I..." 

"I love you." 

It's not what Clint thinks he's going to say, but it's so honest it's actually painful. He can feel it burning in his chest and in his throat and he can't breathe because Phil had said it too, said it first, and he thinks he's gonna die from all the happy. Phil's looking at him like he doesn't believe what he's heard, so Clint leans in and kisses him again, soft this time, tender and sweet. 

"I love you," he repeats, the fire blazing through him before settling into a gentle, prefect warmth. "Always have." 

"But I..." 

"You're perfect Phil Coulson," he says, lifting his hand to cup Phil's cheek in his palm. "When you were gone I... But then you came back. You came back and I had a chance, and this wasn't me taking it, but I guess it worked." 

Brushing his thumb back and forth across Phil's cheekbone, Clint stares at him in awe, stunned by what a simple magazine interview has wrought, by the heat he can see reflected in Phil's eyes. 

"I _would_ do porn for you, if you wanted," he says with a grin, because it breaks the wire-tight thread of tension still ratcheted between them, because it makes Phil laugh. _"With you,_ hell yes! Just you though Phil. Only you." 

"No journalists required huh?" Phil asks with a smile, reaching down to take Clint's hand. "Good. Olivia's just found herself on my short list. I thought I could trust her, but I'll have more screaming fangirls on my hands tomorrow than I know what to do with." 

"Sorry," Clint shrugs, unrepentant. "To be fair I didn't show them _everything._ Never did take my pants off." 

"Better not've," Phil growls, dragging him in close for another bruising kiss. 

"Aw, don't worry babe," Clint smirks against his mouth, "Only you get the real thing." 

"And I plan to take full advantage," Phil murmurs, a dark promise that curls up hotly in the pit of Clint's belly. "I'm going to put my mouth on every single one of those scars you're so proud of." 

And well... 

How can he reply to that but to drag Phil off to bed and hold him to it, before turning around and paying the favor right back?

**AVAVA**

_Clinton Francis Barton is a study in contradictions. Arguably the sole human member of a team of superheroes, he has an extensive military background that includes service in the United States Armed Forces as well as the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division, colloquially known as SHEILD. He has the instincts and strategic mind of a sniper and a spy, but can be, in his own words, "an overgrown manchild who loves pizza, puppies, and the color purple."_

_When I sat down to speak with the archer known as Hawkeye, I was struck by the humorous, gentle nature of the man so often depicted as a stone-faced, rooftop assassin. He was soft spoken and bright, more than willing to crack a joke at his own expense. He spoke candidly of the challenges facing an unenhanced human defending the world, and had more than a few scars to show for it..._


End file.
